Thirteen
by Sciolet
Summary: Quentin Kaiser is not a lucky boy - of all the Doctors he could have met, he meets No. 13: a traumatized wreck, a cynic and a deviant, who has learnt to keep his golden heart behind a wall of steel.


**Chapter 1**

Please, picture the following.  
You are in your room and look out of the window. If you don't have a window in your room, imagine that you have a window in your room. It's a big window, classy and wide and since you live pretty high up in a skyscraper, you can see the whole city beneath you. You don't live in a skyscraper? Not even in the city? Well, imagine you do.  
It's night. The lights of your surroundings flicker in the night. You can see the moon and even a few stars. A clear, beautiful night and you should be long asleep. But you're not. Obviously. Well, you could be a sleepwalker. But you're not a sleepwalker. If you are, you're not today. Or tonight. Whatever you prefer. So, you look out of the window.  
The city is sleeping, your esoteric brother has forgotten to turn off his stereo in the next room and that's why the magnificent, dark view is accompanied by birds chirping and water gurgling and bamboo flutes ...well, fluting. No brother? If yes, not esoteric? Well, you know the rules already.  
Use your imagination.  
You are bored, you can't sleep, and you have had a stressful day -to say the least. You open the window, feel the air brushing up and down your face and you feel like the constant spluttering and swirling and water lulling from next door makes you want to go to the toilet.  
Everything is normal, if a bit boring.  
Hell breaks loose.  
The room starts to fall, you feel like you rush down to the middle of the earth. Gravity first hits you on the floor and then shakes you up and down and throws you against every single piece of furniture you possess. First your head against the desk, then your back against the front side of the bed, followed by a graceful landing on floor – nose first- whereupon you roll over and your bottom hits the lamp, which hits you on the head. You try to stand up, but you can't. Instead, you get to bump into your bookcase. Every. Single. Book. You. Have. Falls. Out. And. Hits. You. Like. An. Army. Of. Angry. Hail. Corns. You feel like you want to throw up (and are, in fact, surprised that you haven't done it yet), your brain is mush, your head is near an explosion and your eyes burn and sting. Oh, and you hurt.  
Where?  
Everywhere.  
The best thing about this? You don't think: Oh, my god, I have to save myself and get somewhere where it isn't so dangerous to open a window. No.  
You think (vaguely): Shit. There's the desk. Wait. Ah, the bed! This is -physically impossible. Ouch. How the hell is this possible? I'm falling, so if I were to look out of window, I would see where I am- no. No standing up. I hate myself for having so many books. This is physically impossible. Not the table! Why does Alice get to fall so softly and nicely and for me it feels like I've entered hell? This is physically impossible.  
To be more exact, it's along these lines: Shi-des-be-physically impossible-hell-fall-windo-whe-no-hate-books-physically impossible-Al-soft-hell-physically impossible.  
So, after careful elaboration you reach the conclusion that the state you are in is physically impossible. Sadly, as it happens so often in life, knowing that this shouldn't be real, doesn't make it any less real.  
You are falling. And if you were hoping that it would stop around this time, just because it has to stop at some point, I have to disappoint you. It doesn't.  
With violently fluttering cheeks you start to wonder why you don't scream and just decided that is as good a moment as any to start with it, when a wondrously strange noise mixes itself into the cacophony of sounds of hellish destruction and chaos. It appears to be of metallic origin, a soothing kind of metal stroking metal and its melody almost manages to relax you somehow. Considering the circumstances, however, it is not surprising that it fails to hush you completely.  
On top of that, it seems to have some trouble itself. The sound trails off one moment, just to reappear right next to your ear, then wander off to the empty and severely shaking bookshelf and so on. Speaking of the bookshelf? It now falls over and only misses you by the length of an ant's ankle.  
And then. It stops.  
Just like that.  
As if nothing had happened. Your room, havocked and in a bigger chaos than ever seen before, stands still and you, still anxiously pressed against the floor, the lamp lying on your chest and your pillow chilling on your stomach (as if to say: Time to reverse the roles, haha!), find it hard to catch your breath again. In your head, everything keeps swirling, and you have the sudden premonition that you will see vomit pretty soon.  
And you would've, hadn't you passed out a few seconds after that.  
You will wake up in a few hours to find a note pinned to your chest. It will read: "Do not panic. What you have just experienced was entirely normal. No, it's not. I lied. Anyway. Do not panic.  
–The Doctor"

Picture show over.  
Welcome to the life of Quentin Kaiser. My life.


End file.
